


Knowledge Seeks No Man

by Cascaper



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Haurchefangst, Reader-Insert, Self-Indulgent, after a fashion, and then regular old angst on Alphi's part haha, featuring Haurchefant as the Lost Lenore, it just came to me, several days later here this is, this picture of the two of them in the night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-04-24 22:07:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cascaper/pseuds/Cascaper
Summary: Alphinaud worries about everyone but himself. Particularly the Warrior.





	1. Til Dawn

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A.H.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13853934) by [Cascaper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cascaper/pseuds/Cascaper). 



It’s late, and Alphinaud is reluctantly considering the prospect of sleep. He’s done everything he can think of: sketched, studied, caught up in his journal. But the clock has just struck the hour for the umpteenth time, and with it, no Warrior has appeared. Another night to add to the tally of the past few weeks.

He’s spent every night this way since the shade of Nidhogg was defeated, since Estinien finally awoke from his slumber. [Name] is surely as weary as he, must also have much and more weighing upon her heart. Thus he remains awake as long as he can, in case she should recall his offer of confidence and a friendly ear.

Then again, this is the Warrior- he has a suspicion that she thinks, as ever, to spare him further worry by keeping her own counsel. He wonders if she knows that her reticence has only the opposite effect. For his own peace of mind, he takes up a spare blanket and goes in search.

[Name] is nowhere in the manor. He finally discovers her outside, coatless, leaning on the southern wall that overlooks the city; her face is turned to the sky as clouds drift across the stars. She gives no hint that she has heard his approach until he has come right up beside her.

“You know what they say,” she remarks quietly, as if continuing a conversation already in progress. “I ‘do not feel the cold as other women.’”

_Drat,_ Alphinaud thinks. “What a pity I brought this, then,” he says aloud, bundling the blanket up tighter in his arms.

Her eyes, so strikingly [color] in daylight, look only marginally dulled by the darkness as she glances briefly from the sky to him and back. “Not a waste, though. You could use it.”

“N-no, I am warm enough,” he replies, cursing his teeth for choosing just that moment to chatter. Chagrined, he leans on the wall, the blanket cushioning him against the chill stones.

“Choco feed,” she immediately shoots back- but he can hear her smiling, just a bit. “You’re always cold.”

Well, this is not to be borne. Alphinaud doesn’t argue, nor unfold his cozy cargo; instead he settles his weight deliberately and remains right where he is. Silence falls for a few long minutes.

He tips his head just enough so that his bangs will hide his eyes from her vantage point (on the off chance that she drops her gaze again) and studies her profile against the glittering heavens. They seem tailored to define her silhouette. Though he risks her notice, he finds it… difficult to look away.

The Warrior of Light, fearless, staunch, so famously stoic. Of course the Scions know there is more to her than that. Indeed, Alphinaud has sometimes thought that- what with all they’ve been through- she is closer to him than most. But in this moment, he realizes how little he truly knows her… at least compared to how much better he would like to.

“I thought,” [Name] says, into the misty air (thank the Twelve she doesn’t see him startle at the sound). “I thought that after- after defeating Thordan and the rest of them, I’d feel… different. Better. Something.”

He doesn’t want to break her train of thought, not now that she’s confiding in him again at last. But neither does he want her to think he has not heard, so he “hm”s in what he hopes is an encouraging tone and waits.

“But then, on the Steps- you remember, when… they were right there. He was right there. Smiling.” She stops. Lets out her breath in a long, controlled sigh. “There and gone, just like that. Didn’t you- didn’t you wish they had…” She trails off. 

She might be looking at him; Alphinaud wouldn’t know. He is caught up in his own memories of that day, of how desperate he’d been. How he had pulled at that hideous eye until his arms were like to slip free of their sockets; how he had thought the effort might after all be doomed… until the touch of a ghostly hand had made him look up, straight into the misty face of a woman he had never thought to see again.

His astonishment at Ysayle’s presence had been nearly forgotten in the subsequent rush of renewed determination that her aid sent through him. In the blinding flash that sent him sprawling when Nidhogg’s eyes finally came loose. Yet now that he thinks on it-

“Yes,” he says, low. “I do wish they had stayed. If only that we might thank them properly for aiding us one last time. Still- if they knew we needed them, enough to come back at all- then they know our gratitude.”

There’s a faint rasp, skin sliding across stone. When he looks, one of [Name]’s hands has cramped into a fist; her shoulders have drawn up tightly, but still she does not shiver.

“If they knew,” she repeats his phrase, her voice suddenly ringing hollow. “Oh, he knows. I’m certain he does. Every time I say his name I can, I can feel him. His aether. Like a warm wind around me, and yet- if he knows, if he can see me, if they can all see us, then why do- why doesn’t-” She is tripping over her words now, as though the lot of them are trying to emerge at once. “He knows I- he knows- but he only-” She abandons the sentence in favor of regaining control of herself, her breath coming just a bit too fast.

Alphinaud isn’t sure what to do. Or rather, he knows what he wants to do: to move over, to offer a comforting touch. On her arm, perhaps, or her now pale-knuckled fist. But somehow he does not quite dare. She has already declined the blanket, too, so he thinks he ought not offer it again. Instead, he inclines his shoulder toward her- just slightly- only an ilm or two. A gesture of solidarity. He waits, hoping this is enough.

“Sorry,” [Name] whispers. Before he can protest that she has naught to apologize for, she goes on. “I remember what you said- that this doesn’t get easier, that it never really ends. But before the bridge I’d thought I could forget the worst of it, and now here I am. Here we are.”

Here they are, indeed. Alphinaud is well aware of that. He cannot remember ever being so acutely conscious of everything about him: the way his feet are solid lumps within his boots, the faint breeze stirring his bangs, the pulse of his own heartbeat. “I… I am glad we are,” he says, the words coming forth without waiting for his permission.

Next thing he knows, [Name]’s arm is coming down upon his shoulders, and he’s caught between relief at its warmth and the heart-pounding fact of its presence. She must feel his traitor muscles shaking; a low laugh ruffles his hair. “See,” she says. “I knew it. You _are_ cold.”

“I suppose so,” he mumbles. At least he’s made her laugh.

[Name] gives him a light squeeze. “You should go back inside,” she tells him. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

But Alphinaud will not leave without her, and she plainly wants to stay longer, so they spread the blanket on the pavement and sit there til dawn.


	2. Steady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Alphinaud's brain finally catches up with his heart.

At the oddest times over the subsequent weeks, Alphinaud recalls the warm weight of the Warrior’s arm over his back, on his shoulders. The sight of her profile against the cloudy stars is etched into his brain. He traces it over and over in the margins of his journal, even does a full-page rendition in his sketchbook, and yet it will not leave. If anything, having committed the memory to paper increases its power.

In this state of mind, he is almost glad when trouble makes its inevitable re-entrance to the Scions’ lives. (Well, the gladness comes _after_ Alisaie has been healed and Garuda banished once more by the Warrior’s hand.) As they set off to investigate mysteriously vanishing crystal shipments, he reassures himself that this whole affair must be just the sort of medicine to shake him free of this peculiar distraction.

The mission was going rather well, he thought, up until Titan manifested before their very eyes. Now he and Alisaie sit at Camp Overlook with their koboldling charge, waiting- and the phantom sensation of the Warrior’s hug chooses this second to pounce, eliciting a heavy sigh with its impact.

“Pardon?” his sister asks. “Did you say something?”

“No,” Alphinaud replies, making a great effort to sound casual.

“Oh,” she says, and resumes her watch over the silent Ga Bu.

It was horribly hot down there in the Navel- stifling, staggering heat. Indeed, he fancies he can feel it even now; surely this is the reason he is seriously considering removing at least his gloves, perhaps even his coat, the longer they remain here. The day is cloudy, the wind whipping ever higher. At this rate it will be raining in less than a quarter bell, and Alphinaud will welcome every drop. No matter how chill the air becomes, his temperature steadily refuses to lower. Is he ill? He cannot say. Though the longer this goes on, the more distinct a possibility it becomes.

[Name] hadn’t batted an eyelash at the prospect of beating down the Lord of Crags yet again. In the dim light beside the kobolds’ aetheryte, her expression had been steady. Solemn. Not a flicker of upset. She simply strode ahead to clear their path back to the surface, then pulled out her linkpearl and returned to the depths.

And the reassuring smile she threw over her shoulder as she went swims now before his eyes. Like an afterimage. Like a sunburst.

Alphinaud tugs at his collar, fidgets with his sleeve cuffs and glove tops. As the first raindrops land on his cheeks and nose, he half expects them to sizzle up in little clouds of steam. Any minute, surely, she’ll reappear quite hale and whole- like every other time. Any moment now, he silently begs her. Just end the suspense.

He cannot settle his gaze on a single point for more than a few seconds. It goes from his boots, to the cliff edge, to the distant pinprick that is the entrance to the mines, erratic as a fly. He never thought he would actually be grateful for that certain most cutting remark of Estinien’s, but hells take it, he is now. The latent sting of the Azure Dragoon’s words is the only thing keeping him from flying into a million pieces of unadulterated fret.

…Right, then. Desperate times call for Carbuncle scouts. One hand is just reaching for his grimoire when Alisaie exclaims, “You’re back! Gods, what a relief.”

Alphinaud whirls about and, praise the Twelve, it’s true- there she stands, all [number] fulms of her. The rain has lost no time in turning the dust caking her battered armor to streaky, dark mud; her face bears a couple of fresh bruises, plus a new cut shows on her forehead- or is it only a scratch? It seems to have scabbed over, at any rate, which means she wasn’t going so fast that the healer couldn’t keep up. The relief is making him light-headed. His mouth, meanwhile, is moving almost independently of his brain.

“Ah, there she is! Did I not tell you she would return safe and sound? The deed is done, then- Titan is no more?” ([Name] nods, although her return is answer enough to his inane question.) “Good. There has been enough tragedy this day.”

***

The Swallows are only too eager to celebrate, raising toast after toast to Titan’s Bane; they do not notice that the woman herself has long since slipped away from the festivities. But Alphinaud does. His sister and Ga Bu are also nowhere in sight, which is more than enough to send him off in search of all three of them.

As it turns out, they are sitting together in the ruins not too far from camp. Alisaie and the Warrior are talking, though he cannot hear their words. Meanwhile, little Ga Bu remains as still as the surrounding stones. There is no trace of the afternoon’s rain clouds tonight; they might as well have melted away. Bright moonlight drenches the scene below him, while stars in their hundreds glitter down, but gods forgive him- Alphinaud only has eyes for [Name].

He cannot look at her enough. The strange heat is back, radiating out from the center of his chest as though a host of candles were suddenly ablaze there. His heartbeat stutters, once- twice- thrice, and thank heavens for the shadows that are sheltering him because Alphinaud suddenly realizes what’s going on.

“Like a maid for her sweetheart,” Estinien’s voice sounds distantly in the back of his skull.

_Sweetheart._

Oh. Oh no.

This cannot be happening. An infatuation with the Warrior, on top of everything else- a thousand and one problems are quite enough without this. He presses his hands to his chest, trying to ground its occupant back to stability. He should leave, now, or she’ll feel his eyes upon her. Look up and see him lurking in the shadows like some sort of stalking beast, and with this cursed pale hair he has no hope of being fully concealed by darkness. Especially not with the moon so bright.

It is a wrench to turn around, to slip away out of their potential sight, before he breaks into a run back to camp. Just outside, he takes a moment to regain his breath, then strolls as casually as possible the remaining distance to his bedroll and sits down. _Get hold of yourself, Alphinaud. Go on. Steady there, steady._

He does not sleep a wink the rest of the night.

**** 

It isn’t that Alphinaud has no previous experience with one-sided affections. On the contrary, they form the sum total of his romantic history (if such it can be called). One after another, each lovely in their own ways- he really cannot be blamed, considering the plethora of attractive persons he seems to encounter at every turn.

But none of them were the savior of the confounded realm.

Alphinaud is bone-certain that as far as [Name] is concerned, he is not even a dim twinkle in the universe of prospects she would consider looking upon with favor. Why should he be? She has many far worthier admirers (Ser Aymeric, for one), whether or not she realizes the fact. Hells, she could point into a crowd with her eyes closed and find a more suitable paramour. (Braver. Stronger. Taller. The list goes on.) She’s utterly spoiled for choice… but then again, he doesn’t even know that she wishes to make such a choice. She was such a wreck the night after the Vault- he would not be surprised if she’s sworn off romance forever.

And who can compete with a dead man?

No one. Least of all Alphinaud.

Besides, matters of the realm must always take precedence over matters of the heart. So, locking away the latter, Alphinaud throws himself into the former with all his might. The Twelve must surely be growing weary of his silent prayers for [Name]’s safe return; they do seem to keep bringing her back, though, so he carries on all the same.

‘Tis not only for the Warrior, of course, that he prays as they become embroiled yet again in other countries’ wars. _May our allies prosper and our enemies be thwarted. May as many as possible live another day._ They plan, they fight- and some are wounded, and some do not return.

Yet in the end, the wars are won. The sun continues to rise. The people rebuild, their chance at peace the best it has been for decades.

And he is still so, so helplessly in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea whether Carbuncles can be ordered to act as scouts or any such thing, but it seemed an appealing idea.
> 
> Thus do I bridge the gap, now, between the points of 'A.H.' and 'For A Start.' The latter can be said to take place between patches 4.1 and 4.2, if I had to pin it down. Internal chronology, achieved!


	3. To Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (POV Switch!)  
> Unbeknownst to young master Leveilleur, similar stirrings arise in his love's heart.

[Name] needs to stop thinking about Alphinaud’s hands.

It is a problem that began some moons back. When the Scions set off to southern Thanalan to investigate yet another bunch of stolen crystals and, by extension, the mysterious figure called the Griffin. When they learned that Yda and Papalymo were not only alive, but aiding the Ala Mhigan Resistance. This connection gave rise to a plan to meet the masked man, a plan which would necessitate disguises…

Which was when [Name] saw those hands, sans gloves, for the first time.

She should have guessed that they would be as delicately drawn as the rest of him. They looked so vulnerable—the slightly tapered fingertips, narrow wrists, softly curving palms. The writing callus on one finger only served to highlight the smoothness of the rest. What pleasing contrast… Then she forced her eyes away, her cheeks suddenly burning even hotter than the desert air.

That was a long day, to say the least. But the sight has haunted her ever since.

What is  _wrong_  with her? She’s never thought so much about anyone’s hands before. They’re just hands. Perfectly innocuous. She’s got a pair of her own, hasn’t she? She wears gloves too, doesn’t she? (To hide her nails, which are ragged and badly trimmed, but that is beside the point.) His should not warrant this level of attention. Not with so many far greater matters to attend. 

* * *

If [Name] is honest with herself, she must admit she noticedAlphinaud long before that day in the desert. Even before they came to Ishgard.

A thousand little things about him have collected in her mind. How his eyes shine when he speaks of his ideals. How his lips part just a bit as he reads. How he stands straighter sometimes when he feels defensive, or steps back in shock. Layers of little details like this, like fallen leaves on the forest floor, shuffled under mental foot. But now there is this insistent awareness of his hands.

Day after day they draw her gaze. Summoning carbuncles, writing letters, turning the pages of his beloved books: his hands make the most ordinary motion compelling. They show, she thinks, more natural grace and precision than any of his well-chosen words. And what might they be like, when turned to tasks of a more… personal nature?

The fantasies bloom thick and fast behind her eyelids: of him giving a signal tap on her shoulder, or pushing her hair off her forehead. Of his warm fingers clasping her own. The back of his knuckles gently brushing her cheek…  _Enough, [Name]. Stop it._

But this is her private downfall: she cannot stop it. Any of it. Night after night his face appears in her dreams, his voice lingers in her ears.

And she pictures his hand in both of hers, skin to skin, turned upward to the light…

She kisses her own palm, and pretends that it is his.


	4. Thinly Veiled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (The POV Switch Continues!)
> 
> In which the Warrior, when pressed to demonstrate her singing voice, uses the opportunity to ease her burdened heart. 
> 
> Written as part of the FFxivWrite2018 Challenge, and featuring some of the secondary Scions! (That is- Aenor and the Boulder Brothers. Thancred is hardly secondary, of course.)

* * *

 

“Oh no, no no no. I am  _not_  singing.”

“Well, it’s unan- umani- umanimous,” Thancred slurs. “We took a vote. Didn’we, eh?” Behind him, Riol, Aenor and the Boulder brothers raise their mugs with a wavery cheer. “We all wanna hear you, c’mon!”

[Name] can see she is trapped. There’s no arguing with determinedly sloshed Scions. Though she’s not sure why they’re sloshed tonight, exactly. Is it someone’s nameday? Or hells, it could be a deathday…Anyway, the Rising Stones common room is relatively empty at the moment. Aside from this lot. 

“Fine,” she sighs. “But only one song, okay?  _One_. That’s it.”

Thancred seizes one of her hands and holds it high. Hollers over his shoulder, “She sings!”

Amid the answering roar of drunken approval, [Name] reclaims her hand. Gives them all a long stare til they subside. At the very least, she doesn’t have to wonder what to sing—she’s had the same song in her head for a while now.

_Lilybell, o lilybell,_  
_Listen close, listen well:_  
_Deep in love I fear I’ve fell,_  
_Lilybell, lilybell._

_I am far beneath his spell,_  
_Lilybell, lilybell:_  
_For his smile I’d run through hell,_  
_Lilybell, o lilybell._

_For want of him I’ve had no rest,_  
_Not by moon nor sun._  
_Who’ll quench the blaze within my breast_  
_If he be not the one?_

_Lilybell, o lilybell-_  
_Aught I own, I would sell_  
_If he’d come with me to dwell,_  
_Lilybell, lilybell._

_If he’ll have me, all is well,_  
_Lilybell, lilybell;_  
_If he’ll not, then ring my knell,_  
_Lilybell, o lilybell._

It’s hardly the sort of rousing tune that drunk folk so enjoy. But this song, this quiet confession addressed to a flower, has taken hold of [Name] and refused to let go ever since she first heard it. Even the sotted Scions before her seem to feel its power: in fact, some are wiping away tears.

“No way,” Aenor finally says. “No  _way_  you weren’t singin’ that a _bout_  someone. You were, right?”

“I didn’t promise to answer questions,” [Name] replies, ignoring the wobble in her knees, willing her ears not to twitch. (Yes, yes she was, and they’re all too far gone to remember any of this but she still doesn’t dare say it out loud.)  “I said one song, and that was all.”

Thancred has his arms crossed, is looking at her with as close to a shrewd expression as the drink haze will allow him, but [Name] does not wait to see what he thinks he knows. Before any of them can stop her, she flees.

It did feel good though. To air her heartache, even for a little while.

-

Behind the library door, Alphinaud stands motionless, save the wild beating of his heart. 

Whether she was singing of him, it matters not. Only that he heard her sing it. That… that will have to be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> I took the title of this piece from the Sharlayan national motto, this being the closest thing I could think of to that old phrase "If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain." I suppose I could have written it "If the Warrior will not come to her friends" or something, but that didn't sound properly proverbial to me. Basically, though, Alphinaud can't know exactly what's on the Warrior's mind without actively presenting her the opportunity to tell him.


End file.
